


Before the match is after the match

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four players trying to pass the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the match is after the match

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on June 24th, 2006.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> The lovely cerulean_eyes did an excellent beta, as always, and I'm so very grateful to her for doing it that quickly and efficient, and even doing her best to fulfill my hope to post it today. Much love and admiration for her!

Basti's whistling as he's taking the steps two at a time. The bottle of lube is jiggling in the pocket of his trainers, next to the condoms. Maybe he's too optimistic, but then, it has been too damn long – well, not really, if you count last Sunday when Metze came over to fetch some things of his and it ended with both of them entangled intimately on his bed, clothes strewn everywhere. They had to interrupt the second act of their lovemaking as Metze's phone rang, reminding the defender of a last-minute interview he had promised to give a school's newspaper. Now there won't be any disruptions, at least Basti hopes so – Jürgen had addressed the team this morning, telling them that they would only have to concentrate on training and nothing else, wanting them to be in shape for the big match on Friday.

He probably won't be on the pitch for the opening match, seeing as Torsten isn't going to break a leg for him; and as Micha's going to be benched as well, it'll be rather Borowski than him, that much is ascertained. Basti doesn't mind it that much – it would be great to be on, but then, he's happy enough just to be called up to the national squad after all when it didn't look like he would make it. Now he's here, and what's better – he's together with Metze, just like four years ago and it's just as it should be.

But then, things do have changed in these four years. He's going to be a father now. The thought still scares him a bit, but then, he's also looking forward to it. He's already an uncle two times over, thanks to his older brother, and has got enough experience in holding babies and even in changing nappies – to the amazement of his sister-in-law, he actually was better at it than the real father!

It'll be just three more months, four at the most until the newest addition to the Kehl household arrives. He's phoning Tina daily, asking about her and the baby, letting her reassure him with a light laugh and her sweet voice. He knows that he's being rather overprotective, but then, he wants to do what's right by his family. She has told him that she thinks it will be a footballer, too, as it loves to kick at her and he laughed along with her. "If it gets too much, just redcard it," he joked. "Ah, I don't mind really, Basti," she said, and he could hear the smile, "it has to come after you, too. So I've got you here with me, when you're actually with the team."

It is one of the best things that ever happened to him, Basti thinks. He's now on the third floor where Metze is; his own room is on the ground floor. The door to the hall is closed, but just as he's touching the doorknob, it turns itself and then he's looking at Basti – Schweini, that is.

"Wha – Basti?"

"None other, Schweini." The Bavarian gets called 'Schweini' by everyone now so that Basti has the pleasure of being the only 'Basti' on the team to avoid confusion. It would've been hell if Sebastian Deisler was there, too. The blond's looking a bit flustered, but smiles back at him.

"Ah, okay – I just have to fetch something," and then Schweini is walking past him to the stairs, the flap-flap noise of the flip-flops he always wears echoing in Basti's ears.

So Metze's sharing the floor with Schweini, too. Huh. Basti pushes the door open, seeing six doors, three on each side. Metze's is number 4.

The defenders had to do extra training under the supervision of Löw today, practising running ways and passing. Basti had watched them on the far side of the stadium, his eyes following Metze's dark mop, while he was stretching. "They don't look so bad," Timo had said, and Basti had turned and looked at the blond goalie next to him who was doing the exercises as well. Although his chances of standing between the goalposts were close to nil, he never missed out on any training exercises as far as Basti knew. "Yeah, let's hope that they'll hold up against the Ticos," he agreed and Timo had nodded, his eyes searching the defense as well. Basti knew who the goalie was looking out for: little Philipp. Both of them were good friends as well and could often be found sitting next to each other at the same table at dinner, laughing and talking. He wondered if Timo missed Philipp when the diminutive defender had to go back to Bayern.

He knows he would miss Metze. Fiercely.

Basti sighs, the engraved '4' of Metze's door right in front of him. He wishes that nothing would ever change, that it'd be still Metze and him at the BVB. He knows that Metze has made mistakes in matches, but then, who hasn't? But as Bert does have to think of the BVB's future, of advancing in the 1st Liga, Basti can't really blame him, either, for wanting to play it safe with the Brenner. But thanks to this, he has had to bear a moody and sometimes grumbly Metze after matches, and when they lost, no amount of distraction could make the clouds disappear off Metze's mind.

And when Basti had read about Werder Bremen wanting Metze, _his_ Metze, well. Despite not being the Metze in his 2002 form yet, his best friend still was one of the best inner defenders in Germany. And as he had seen and heard – from Torsten and Tim – that Werder's defense was rather lacking, it was a good move. But what had really shaken him up was Metze's response of 'thinking about it and being honoured', and the small jabs towards the BVB. The next day at training, he had just said to Metze, "We have to talk," and the tall brunet had replied with a quiet, "Yeah."

They had talked, yes. And yelled, but that had been mainly on Basti's part. Metze had remained calm all throughout it, explaining himself, pointing out the obvious until Basti had given up, slumping down on the couch in Metze's living room.

"But what about us?", he had sighed, finally voicing it. Not looking at Metze, not wanting to see the pain mirrored in the soft brown eyes.

Metze hadn't said anything, but sat down next to him, their thighs touching. Their lovemaking this night had been – well, different. Different in that they touched each other a lot in silence, bordering on an almost painful seriousness, interrupted only by whispered, half-swallowed words and rustling and sighs and moans. And when Basti awoke, he had curled himself around Metze, their legs entangled and he had wished that they could stay like that – forever.

But some wishes have to stay unfulfilled, that Basti knows from past experience. Otherwise they wouldn't be wishes, would they?

Some days later, though, Metze had said that he had declined the offer from Werder Bremen, but hinted that he'd be open to new ones after the World Cup. He had bought them some time. But that time will have to end, and where will that leave them then?

Basti sighs. Since when did he get so maudlin? He had been determined to enjoy this time, alone with Metze at last. Shaking his head at himself, he knocks on the door, twice sharp, pause, again twice. Their secret code.

~~~

Damn, where had he put it? Bastian let the key drop into the bowl on the table next to the door and looks around his room. His bags are still half-unpacked, spilled over the bed – he had to search for his hair gel this morning, cursing his messiness for the umpteenth time. But the item in question isn't to be seen anywhere here – maybe he put it in the bathroom? Crossing the room, Bastian yanks open the adjoining door. His toiletries are neatly in a row on the ledge over the washbasin, and there's the bag. He picks it up and roots through it, letting out a silent whoop when his fingers close around a small bottle. At last.

He slides it into the pocket of his trainers. Now he's all set and can return to Lukas, fulfilling his promise. His lips turn up into a grin as he snatches the key and closes the door behind himself, turning it twice in the lock.

They had to do only the one training shift as they had to attend a press conference afterwards. What a bullshit, but at least having Lukas there along with him was fun, horsing around like they always did. They had to grin when Lehmann said that they actually were more relaxed in private – the goalie probably remembered the incident from yesterday all too well. Bastian still thinks that it had been really Lukas' fault, but had accepted the good-natured ruffle of Micha's with a smile. "Thank God that I'm leaving Bayern," their captain had joked, "both of you on the Bayern team – now I pity poor Felix." The whole table had laughed, and Olli had added, "Now I know whom I can make responsible for the grey hair," to which Bastian had shot back, "Yeah, just wait until we've mixed some of that 'Distinguished Silver' dye into your shampoo bottle, _then_ you can complain."

It will be great when they'll be united at Bayern, Bastian thinks. He remembers that he had been one of the first to phone Poldi, knowing that his friend's phone must be ringing like mad with congratulators from all over, all wanting to be the first. But then he had gotten through and it had been craziness, screaming and yelling, "You did it, you did it, fuck it, you did-" and "My God, can you believe it, can you, really?", and more incoherent yelling and screaming, and it was perfect, they would be together for at least three more years, if everything'd go well, knock on wood, and then there's the national squad, too.

Sometimes, though, Bastian thinks that it's too good to be true. But then, times like these just happen and you have to grab your chance to live through them, because, otherwise? There'll be just a heap of regrets, and Bastian doesn't want to be one of these guys saying, "If I had ever…", no. He won't be. And neither will Lukas be, of that Bastian is sure. That's why they click so well, although there are differences between them. Lukas is somewhat quieter, restrained at times. He doesn't like clubbing, but Bastian is determined of showing him a good time when they're in Bayern. He also doesn't do booze, but Bastian doesn't mind that. It's just a shame that Poldi has so far refused his offers to show him a good time in Munich the few times he was there, and Bastian does know the best clubs, thanks to Andi and Michi, who do party more than he does himself, actually. Instead, Lukas had always smiled and said, "Why do I need to go out when I can have as good a time here with you, Bastian?"

And – faced with Lukas' grin like that and the occasional dropped piece of clothing, like trainers, or jerseys, or even towels – oh, yes. He always caves in – but then, who wouldn't? And these are really good times, yes. Even great ones, Bastian has to admit that, and he never would trade these for a regular night out with the guys.

He's now back on the floor where Kehl had been, facing him when he had pulled the door open. The Dortmund player is a nice guy, graced with a good sense of humor. He had even been set to play at Bayern himself, back in 2003 – from what Bastian had heard, there even was a cheque with a hefty sum sent over, but the then-Freiburgian had asked for time to rethink and suddenly he had signed up with Dortmund instead, sending back the cheque and Bastian remembers that Hoeness had been quite pissed about that. But Kehl had done well at Dortmund then, even winning the Cup in his first season there. He and Metze, the Dortmund defender, are as thick as thieves – they have been so for along time, at least since they were both at the national squad in 2002. Whereever one of them is – at training, for example – you can be sure that the other one is nearby, and when that's not the case, they will always know the other one's whereabouts.

Bastian's now in front of Lukas' room, the door not closed all the way, and he lets himself in. The shower's running, and he flops himself down on the huge bed, which looks way cleaner than his own downstairs. Bastian knows that if he were to open the wardrobe, it would be full with clothes cleanly folded or smoothed out on hangers. Lukas did take out his PlayStation, though, and set it up next to the TV. It's now set on 'pause'. ProEvolution Soccer, and he's Brazil. Bastian scoots over the bed to pick up the gamepad, grinning.

"Hey!" He flinches back, blinking his eyes against the water droplets showering down on him. "Trying to mess up my game, what?" Lukas grins, folding a towel around his hips, the hair sticking up in all directions.

"Mess up your game? More like trying to _improve_ it, I've seen how you play," Bastian retorts.

"Oh, now that hurt," Lukas laughs, snatching another towel from behind the bathroom's door and starts rubbing it briskly across his chest and shoulders. "Did you fetch it?" he asks.

"Did I ever," says Bastian, pulling out the bottle and dangling it in front of the Pole.

"Scout's honour, eh?" Lukas smirks, grabbing it and squinting at the fine print.

"It's the genuine article, don't worry," Bastian says, getting up from the bed and coming to stand next to Lukas. There's still a little water that the Pole overlooked when he dried himself off – right on his neck, a single drop glittering in the sunlight falling through the thin stores.

Lukas squeaks and Bastian grins at him. "You're tasty." He licks the same spot again, and then Lukas turns around to face him, smiling, and, as easy as a key turns in a lock, their lips meet, and Bastian can taste the mouthwash Lukas uses – Odol or something like that. He likes to trace the slight scar on Lukas' upper lip. Their tongues tangle lazily, not with the nervous fervour of first-time lovers, but rather with a comfortable familiarity which can sparkle into passion at any time or just leave them thoroughly satisfied. His hands slowly trace Lukas' damp back, feeling the muscles flow under his hands.

As Lukas slides a hand under Bastian's jersey, he breaks the languid kiss for a moment. "Tasty, eh?"

"Very, at that." Bastian returns the smile, tugging at the towel. Lukas' hand moves slowly over his skin, inch by inch, leaving a warm glow behind and Bastian claims his mouth once again, nipping at Lukas' full lower lip, gently sucking on it. He gasps when a thumb circles his left nipple, feeling a heady surge rushing towards his groin, stirring his blood. Then the towel drops to the floor and Lukas is gloriously naked in front of him.

Bastian doesn't have to look down to see that Lukas is aroused; the hot hardness against his stomach is proof enough. His hands slide down to the arse, feeling the hard muscles tighten under his grip. The kiss gets more heated until it really can't be called a kiss anymore, but rather a clashing of tongues, with bites and sucks interspersed, and hands roaming over each other's bodies inelegantly but with a hunger that can't be denied, and then Bastian's pulling his jersey over his head with Lukas bending down and nibblingsucking on the left nipple, his thumb smoothing over the hard nub of the other one, and Bastian groans, his fingers grappling for halt in Lukas' wet, short-cropped hair.

~~~

"Come on in," Metze says, and Basti follows him into the room, shutting the door with his foot. "Am I disturbing something?"

"My very well-deserved rest, if you must know," Metze says, but his smile betrays him.

"Then I'd better go," Basti jokes, "wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep." He moves to turn, but Metze's quicker than him, catching his arm – so that they're now standing that close that Basti could almost feel Metze's heartbeat, and he raises his eyebrow. "Forgoing your beauty for my company?"

Metze chuckles. "Well, I don't want to end up getting voted as one of the cutest footballers by gay magazines."

"These guys do have _taste_, Metze." – "Something I share with them, no?" and with these words, Metze's mouth closes over Basti's.

Basti closes his eyes, smiling into the kiss. It's _always_ that good, that easy. When Metze's hand slides up his arm, loosening the grip and tracing his collarbone, half-hidden behind the jersey, Basti opens his mouth to Metze's insistent tongue, his own hands resting on the jut of Metze's hipbones over the trainers, the warmth seeping through the thin fabric. Metze is always warm, an advantage that Basti shamelessly abuses whenever he shares a bed with his best friend as his own feet are always so damn cold.

Metze now slides his hand up Basti's neck, stroking the nape and Basti shivers slightly; it's one of his weak points, as Metze very well knows. The defender now uses his height to his advantage and Basti willingly gives in – but not without a little nip to Metze's lower lip as Metze's arm sneaks around him. Their tongue duel gets more heated and Basti moans into Metze's mouth, feeling his dick harden against Metze's thigh, the friction heightening the sensation.

When Metze's hand slides into his briefs underneath his trainers – which ones did he put on this morning, the faded green ones? Or the white CK ones? Basti can't remember, not when that hand is stroking his arse cheek forcefully, almost like a light massage, with fingertips dipping into the crack, squeezing gently. He shudders and clutches at Metze's jersey, bunching it up in his fists.

Metze's other hand is in his hair, holding his head in place as he's devouring Basti's mouth, the erection stirring against Basti's hipbone proof of his arousal. Basti can't fathom how they managed to go through the first years of friendship without… this, as easy and natural and _right_ it feels.

He tugs Metze with him, slowly shuffling backwards – the bed has to be somewhere behind him… Oof. For a short moment, he loses his equilibrium, overbalancing as his calves have hit the bed's frame and can't go further, and then he's landing rather inelegantly on the comforter, with a very heavy Metze right on top of him as he hadn't let go of Basti during the manoeuvre.

"Ow!"

"Did you hurt yourself?" Metze's still on top of him, but has raised himself up and Basti can see the little worry lie between his eyebrows forming. He shakes his head, mouth pulling up in a little smirk. "I just got flattened by 84 kilos of human flesh and only wanted to voice my appreciation, Metze."

"Oh, now you're making me blush with your flattery, Kehli. I just hope that there'll be more appreciation down the road…" Said with a wicked grin and lifting himself up on one elbow, Metze's free hand slides up Basti's stomach, pulling up the jersey as it advances further north. Then Metze's looking down at him, at the expanse of slightly tanned skin marred by some moles here and there. Basti folds his hands behind his head.

"Still agreeing with your taste?" he queries, smiling slightly. Instead of answering, Metze bows down, and then Basti gasps as Metze's warmwet mouth closes around his right nipple, sucking hard. His hand strokes Basti's side, caressing the sensitive skin just above the waistband, and Basti groans, his back arching and his erection rubbing against the damp fabric, scorching thin tendrils unfolding upwards Basti's spine and he feels goosebumps spread on his arms and legs, shivering all over. "Clothes off," he gasps, his hands scrabbling on Metze's neck, fingers twisting in the jersey fabric.

"Yeah," his best friend exhales, and Basti's not the only one affected by the heat of the moment, as he can feel the hot throb against his thigh. "Come on, come on," and, aided by Basti's impatient hands, Metze's jersey lands with a slight 'plop' next to the bed. The brunet defender struggles into a sitting position, his usually rather unruly hair even more messed up and then he rolls off Basti, tugging at his trainers. It develops into a hectic scrabble – who can get naked quicker, discarding the remaining clothing items along with the sandals and socks, flinging everything to the floor. Then Metze's on him again, his legs edging in between Basti's, nudging them apart and when their cocks touch, sliding against each other, Basti groans - _finally_. His hands touch Metze's sides, right above the indent of his hips, damp skin warming under his palms.

He wants to get on with it, to get fucked by his best friend, but – strangely enough – he can't do it. Not yet. He's just looking at his best friend, and Metze's also still; not moving an inch, just being. There. With him, and Basti desperately wishes, for a second, that he could immortalize this moment in amber. Them, joined and not to be undone, ever.

But then Metze bends down, ever so slowly and hesitant, and then his lips touch Basti – high on his cheek, a warm glow, and the midfielder closes his eyes. Then they brush against his lashes, and Metze's moving, slowly – as if Basti were a doll, made out of fragile glass. Basti's fingers paint simpletwisted patterns on Metze's back, feeling the skin give way under the slight pressure, brushing over the one mole on the left side, up towards the spine.

Kisses all over his face; on his nose, on the very tip, then on that place where his eyebrows tend to draw together when he's brooding. His temple, brushing softly past the throb of his pulse, on his ear's conch, then right behind it, and Basti has to bite down on his lip as Metze starts to move, a slow thrust-slide rhythm. A wet lick down his neck, cool breath blown on it, and then a sharp nick at the juncture which sends lightning down his spine, whiteblindinghot, and Metze's ass feels _so_ good, the warmsweaty globes clenching under Basti's hard grip, filling his palm perfectly.

When Metze thrusts upwards again, harder this time, their cocks collideslide against each other, the precum easing the way, and Basti gasps for air, not able anymore to think a coherent thought – it's all just sensations, lightning up his mind – the rasp of Metze's thighs against his, the mingled breath, Metze's eyes wide open, drinking him in. Sweat collecting on Metze's forehead, matting his hair, plastering it to the temples, and the rapid pistoning of the brunet's hips burning against Basti's inner thighs.

And underneath all of it is this great fucking sensation of _drowning_, drowning in desire and lust. And love, but then, this one goes without saying. Basti feels the waves crash over his head, the seductive torrent pulling him under, and he's that close to give himself up.

But he wants even more; he wants what he _needs_ \- and it's also what Metze needs, too. So he says, voice shaking with hunger, "Fuck me," and Metze stills his movements, breathing hard.

"N-no condoms," he sighs, "lube, neither," but Basti smiles. "My trousers."

Metze raises his eyebrows at him, returning the smile. "Coming prepared, eh?"

"What else," retorts Basti, giving Metze's ass a quick squeeze, "now get off me so I can get them, will you?"

"I hear and obey, my lord," the defender quips as he rolls off Basti, who just rolls his eyes, but can't help the grin as he scoots off the bed to search for his trainers which have landed on the chair in the corner. The condoms and the lube are quickly located and Basti tosses them onto the bed, the condom strip narrowly missing Metze's head.

"Here you go," Basti says, grinning as he quickly straddles Metze, feeling the slender thighs flex under his ass. Their cocks are almost touching, but just, and he looks down, watching Metze's hand close around them, the long dexterous fingers enveloping them in a firm hold, and he groans, his hands twisting in the bedspread, his hips rocking forward.

Little slivers are pricking his spine, spreading upward and he swallows a groan, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes, only to open them when the hand disappears, but the click of the bottle of lube being opened and seeing Metze dipping his fingers into the liquid on his palm made him close them again, and when the hand is back, Basti can't suppress the loud groan as it's just so much better, slickwarmth and the friction increases by a thousandfold, making him shiver and the speed of his thrusts increases. The sound of their moangrunts throbs in his ears and just when Basti approaches the point of no return, Metze's hand on his hip tightens, stilling Basti's movements. The hand around their cocks gives them a last squeeze and disappears, and Basti sighs, opening his eyes.

"Why did you stop?"

"I distinctly remember you begging me to fuck you," Metze breathes, eyes half-lidded. He nudges at Basti with his knees as he's pouring some lube on his fingers, smearing it around evenly.

Basti closes his eyes, levering himself up so that Metze'll have easy access – and sucks in a sharp breath when Metze's fingers have found their goal and the slight pain at the first intruder soon dissipates and he moves in rhythm to the fingerfucking, biting his lip as a second one slides in next to the first up to the second knuckle, crooking slightly and – oh my God, he shuddermoans as his head falls forward, _yes_, that's it.

And then Metze hits the spot again and again, delving and moving around, and it's pure blisstorture, and Basti feels as if his whole world has rapidly shrunk, concentrated on this small area of his body and he _has_ to burst because it's too much to hold in, too intense, and when Metze's fingers slide out, he hisses, his muscles clenching and he wants Christoph in him, right _now_.

He feels Metze moving around underneath him, thighs brushing against his legs, the ripping of the condom foil impossibly loud in his ears. He opens his eyes to watch Metze rolling the thin latex sheath on his erection and then he hears a low, "Ready, Kehli?"

"Get on with it, damn you," Basti hisses, closing his eyes again and then something blunt moves against his entrance, hotwet, and he swallows, expectant shivers coursing up his back as he pushes down, slowly. Metze's hands are stroking his thighs, fingernails rasping over the hair slightly.

"Chris," Basti moans, drawn-out, as the thick head slips past the ring of muscle, and then Metze thrusts up, not able to hold back anymore, and Basti gasps out loud, his eyes scrunched shut and he's sure that he's broken his knuckles, the heady surge is that intense, almost painfully so, but he wants, _needs_ even more and so he bucks up and down, settling into a fast rhythm with Metze's thrusts.

"God," gasps Metze, his whole body taut as a whip, his hands gripping Basti's thighs, slamming up into him, again and again. Basti feels a sweatdrop running down his temple and he grunts, not able to be coherent anymore, every fibre of his being concentrated on the impending orgasm, feeling the first waves crash against his very being, white foam splashing up and then, with a last deep thrust, he's riding on the biggest wave, towards the cliff and then he's bursting into a million pieces, glitteringprickling.

Metze's coming with him, too; a guttural moan half-swallowed accompanies his own loud cry, and Basti's arms give out, making him half-tumble onto Metze, breathing hard, still lost in the waves, being rocked by Metze's heaving chest, his eyes closed.

When the softened cock slides out of him, Basti has to wince slightly. He feels like he can't move any limbs as they're soaked full. As Metze's arms envelope him in a hug, he just nuzzles the sweaty neck, sighing.

"Are you that worn out?", Metze mumbles into his hair, his fingers combing through Basti's damp hair, smoothing over his back.

"I'm an old man, Christoph. I'm nine months older than you, don't forget that," Basti sighs, his fingers tracing the pattern of the bedspread.

Metze chuckles. "Well, then get off me, Grampa, so I can fetch something to clean us off."

"Tyrant," Basti grumbles, but only half-heartedly and rolls over, flopping his arms out. "I'm so dead," he says.

"Guess I have to take up necrophilia, then," Metze says as he returns from the bathroom, wiping himself off with a towel and then tossing it to Basti, who picks it up.

"You're a freak," Basti says, but he's smiling back at Metze.

~~~

Lukas grasps the headboard, spreading his knees a bit further. "Like that?" he asks, looking over his shoulder at Bastian, smiling.

Suddenly, Bastian has to swallow. _How did they get to this point?_, flashes through his mind. At some point in their shared past they had been only friends, more or less innocently enough, and it had been good enough. Now they are still friends, oh yes, but do friends get dry-mouthed at being offered their friend's great ass?

"Yeah," he manages, squeezing his cock, unconsciously rubbing the hard length. Lukas raises and eyebrow and grins. "Get over here before you shoot your load, kochanie."

"Don't worry," Bastian says, climbing onto the bed behind Lukas. "I have plans," and he bends down, planting his hands on Lukas' hips. The Pole has a magnificent arse, perfectly rounded, a light dusting covering the pale skin, thickening towards the cleft. Damn, he always has to avert his eyes whenever Lukas bends over in front of him at training – otherwise he'd have a real problem down there. There's a reason why he never tucks his jerseys in. Also, the memory of Frau Mayr, the elderly neighbour back home exposing herself accidentally when she thought no one would catch her scratching – ugh, but, well, there's only so many times this one will work, and what then?

Anyway, yes. Perfect ass, not even Micha's can top that. Bastian bites down, just where thigh becomes ass, and Lukas' surprised gasp makes him grin. Another bite, this time following it up with a hard lick, and another, and he can feel goosebumps rippling over Lukas' skin. The quick flexing of the muscles, shifting under the smooth wetglistening skin, and the harsh breathing of Lukas', and Basti doesn't have to see his best friend's face now to know what he'll look like now – eyes scrunched shut, gritting his teeth and more often than not, he'll bite down on his full lower lip, drawing in breath sharply.

A broad swipe with his tongue brings him close to the puckered opening, and this definitely works, considering Lukas' loud moan. Smoothing his hands over the ass, spreading the cheeks apart, Bastian's tongue darts out, flickering against it, teasing and rubbing. Another moan, followed up with a barrage of Polish – which means that Lukas must be pretty close. Bastian licks one last time over the cleft, the taste not too unpleasant – clean sweat, a bit of musk and a faint soapy essence which has to be the shower gel that Lukas had used.

He raises himself up, glancing over Lukas' arse to see if he has left any visible marks – he should probably have been a bit more careful. Sliding a hand down Lukas' hip and around to the already hard and leaking cock, he closes his fingers around the hot length, precum slicking up his fingers.

Lukas bucks up into his grip, drawing in a breath sharply, and Bastian shuffles closer, squeezing Lukas' cock in rhythm with the thrusts, until his thighs are flush against Lukas', his cock sliding in between them, the tip nudging Lukas' balls, and he has to stifle a groan by mouthing the skin between Lukas' shoulder blades, spit and sweat mixing. Bastian starts to move with Lukas, feeling the Pole's heartbeat thrum in his ears, interlaced with their heavy breathing and the slaps of skin on skin. His hand follows the ridge of the hipbone to delve underneath the slippery hold of his other hand, enveloping Lukas' balls. They are warmheavy in Bastian's hand and he squeezes them – not too hard, but also not too lightly, and is rewarded with a jerk of Lukas' cock and a shudder running over the forward's back.

"Hurry the fuck up," Lukas groans, and his thighs clench around Bastian's cock, along with the ass muscles and Bastian has to hold on himself to not follow his first impulse of just going along with it and release himself into the wet warmth, rutting mindlessly.

"Then don't tease me, jackass," he retorts, gritting his teeth as he shuffles back, his cock slipping out from between Lukas thighs, leaving behind a wet streak. "Where's the bottle, now?"

"Table," Lukas says, spreading his thighs again and shuffling to get into a better position. "Towel, too."

Bastian leans over, snatching the still damp towel up from the floor and flings it towards Lukas.

"Hey!" – "Bear it like a man," Bastian says with a grin, holding the bottle in his hand and watching Lukas snatch it off his back with a mock-grumble and put on the linen underneath him. The bottle lid clicks open and Bastian pours some of the clear liquid in his palm. It's a rather expensive lubricant, one of the best in the market – water-based and guaranteered to not leave any stains, which was the main incentive to buy it. Chucking the bottle onto the pillow next to Lukas, he slicks his cock up with two, three quick strokes.

He then nudges Lukas' thighs apart and rubs his slippery fingers into the cleft, spreading the lube around. His fingers slide in smoothly and Bastian watches Lukas bucking against them as he's scissoring them, mimicking thrusts. The sight is so fucking hot that he could come from it alone and he swallows thickly, squeezing his cock with his other hand, suddenly feeling as if every thought was sucked from his mind, leaving behind only a hazy red-clouded desire_hunger_ feeding on the mingled sounds of pleasure reverberating in the room.

Not capable of waiting any longer, Bastian pulls the fingers out and grasps Lukas' hips, settling himself into position – and then he's sheathed in Lukas with a long smooth thrust, his balls brushing against Lukas' thighs, and he moans at the tight hold; he has done that often enough, it's really nothing new yet it never ceases to be less than fuckinggreatamazing, and the world around him turns red, blurring more and more, drenching Lukas in a ruby glow and Bastian only dimly hears the hard slapping of his thighs against Lukas' arse, faster and faster, in rhythm with Lukas' own erratic thrusts. It feels as if his blood is boiling and he has to bite down hard on his lip to not scream and his sweatslippery hand sneaks around Lukas' hip, fingertips encountering the bobbing erection, already leaking copiously. At the small touch, Lukas grunts, muscles clenching around Bastian and this is _it_.

He thrusts a last time into Lukas, _hard_, and then the red cloud just explodes, fiery streaks covering his vision, and he moans loudly, his cock spasming and spurting, and Bastian slumps forward over Lukas, all strength leaving him. His chest heaves against Lukas' back and he would love nothing more than to stay like that, half-prostrate, his hands trailing Lukas' sides up to the muscled shoulders, trailing in the sweat.

Lukas hasn't come yet, though, so Bastian's fingers wander downward until they finally close around the hothard cock, jerking it two, three times – hard, as Lukas likes it – until his cock alarms him to Lukas' impending orgasm and he squeezes down, with a little twist and this does the trick, Lukas thrusting back one last time, groaning and every muscle in his body clenching up, which makes Bastian wince – not because of the copious amounts of come spurting onto the towel, but because of his now rather sensitive cock still ensheathed in Lukas' arse.

He raises himself up a bit to let his soft cock slide out of Lukas, and if he weren't already flush with heat, he'd blush at the wetsmacking sound.

"Fuck," Lukas says, shaking himself like a wet dog. Picking up the towel and cleaning himself up, he then hands it to Bastian who does the same and flings the towel into the bathroom afterwards.

"Goal," he croons, and Lukas turns around, scooting lower and then he's pulling Bastian down to him, looking flushed and smiling.

"Let's hope that won't be your only one at this tournament," the forward jokes, and Bastian snorts. "Look who's talking." It isn't meant as a jab, and Lukas knows it, too – they are that good friends that they can joke about things like that. But he nevertheless brushes his lips across Lukas', settling down at his side, his right leg sliding in between Lukas'.

"You know what's the best thing about this?" Lukas says, and Bastian shakes his head. "No," he replies, "the fucking?"

"How crude, Schweini," but Lukas' smirk betrays him. Bastian chuckles, his fingers tracing Lukas' biceps, the gentle slope of the muscle. "Well, tell me."

"That I can fall asleep afterwards instantly. And snore. And fart. And not getting bitched out about any of that," Lukas says, grinning at him.

Bastian laughs. "Too true." He pulls Lukas' head down for a kiss, a hard smack and then he's turning around, pulling at the bed sheets and then Lukas edges up behind him, a hand stroking his thigh and then their upper bodies are flush against each other, creating a cocoon of warmth underneath the thick blankets. Bastian can feel Lukas' breath against his neck, moistwarm, and smiles.

Lukas is right, is his last more or less conscious thought before he's welcomed into Morpheus' open arms, Lukas' slight snore following him into his dreamless sleep.

~~~

"I'll give this one a ten," Basti says. "You can fuck like rabid bunnies and the people next door won't notice anything."

Metze chuckles. "Doing your Kehl tests again?" His hand's resting on Basti's stomach, a warmheavy weight. Just lying there, and then Basti slides his own on top of it, interweaving their fingers.

Turning and looking at Metze who's propped up on his elbow, his head resting in his palm, he grins. "Yeah, well, it's in my blood. Though I suppose my criteria wouldn't be very objective as I have some really special ones, you see."

Metze smiles. "They're great criteria, though."

"Yeah, you would say that. But honestly, this hotel is great. Like, the kicker tables and the pool table and everything, that big hut out there in the garden with pillows and such – it's really a superb idea. When I'm going to take over the hotel, I'll do something up in that style, too." Basti's now talking animatedly, his eyes sparkling. "I would do it up in a slightly more modern style – not too much so that the old clientele will still recognize it, though, and I'd do more sports, offer bike tours and hike tours and maybe do kids' weekend camps and such, when parents can unload them for a weekend and not worry, and then there could be theme weeks, too, for everyone. Yeah, and I'd do maybe footie days with little tournaments, like a mini World Cup –" and then Metze's cutting off his babble with a kiss.

"You'll do that," he says, his hand cupping Basti's cheek, the thumb stroking the cheekbone. "You'll have the best hotel ever and you'll be booked out for years, decades even."

Basti smiles up at him. "Yeah, and you'll be there with me, all along this ride, no?"

"Always," Metze replies, and this time it's Basti who pulls him down for a deep kiss.

~~~

**Two days later**

They're in the garden, enjoying the beautiful weather; and really, lazing around in these big chair-couches – it doesn't get better. Bastian gulps down the ice-cool water, the bottle resting on his stomach.

"Still not finished?" he asks, looking at Lukas. The Pole had received a letter from his advisor, apparently something important about the transfer. At the sound of a 'click', Bastian flashes his grin at the advancing photographer.

"Done," Lukas replies, grinning for the benefit of the photographer, "it wasn't really something important, but Kon likes to keep me updated about everything."

"Can't go wrong with that," Bastian says. He raises the water bottle to his lips again. Swallowing, he adds, "You will so love it at Bayern, I promise," a wicked glint entering his eyes.

Lukas laughs. "I'll hold you to that, Schweini," he says. And Bastian knows that if they weren't out here in the open, if the photographer and the others weren't there, Lukas would've kissed him then and here. And he knows that Lukas knows that he knows. Or something like that.

He grins. "You do that. Hey, fancy a round of snooker?"

Lukas shakes his head. "Nah, there's Metze and Thomas, as far as I know. Kelly told me when I saw him in the hall."

"Oh," Bastian says. "Too bad. I've already played like ten rounds of table football, so. Kelly? Isn't he playing with Metze, too?"

"No, he was heading out to relax in the wellness area," Lukas says. "Said that he'd have some quiet then."

Bastian grins. "What, were we too loud this morning?"

Lukas snorts. "I'd bloody hope not, seeing as he's on the ground floor. That would've been a racket!"

"Isn't he on your floor, then?" Bastian asks, eyebrows raised. "I thought he was – I met him at the hall door when I was going downstairs to fetch the lube, you know, on Thursday."

"You did? Huh," Lukas says, pursing his lips. "Whom would he visit – oh, of course. Metze is on the same floor as me; he's in room 4."

"Oh, well, that explains it," says Bastian. "Best friends, and all that."

Lukas grins. "What do you bet that they're as good friends as we are?" he asks, winking at Bastian, who just laughs, shaking his head.

"In your dreams, kochanie," he chuckles, tossing the almost-empty water bottle onto the grass.

It'd be pretty unlikely, really.

**Author's Note:**

> _kochanie_ is Polish and means 'darling' or 'sweetheart'


End file.
